


Flickering Flames

by sassysatsuma



Series: Flickering Flames (Eivor/Vili) [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Oh no you don't Ubisoft, Spoilers for Snotinghamscire, lovesick idiots pretending they're just friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28115775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassysatsuma/pseuds/sassysatsuma
Summary: Even up in Odin’s hovel, when he’d told her that he wanted her, Eivor had assumed that it was just that, a flickering flame. An exploration of that first kiss before he left Norway.  A man who trusted her with everything reaching out for comfort whilst the rest of his world remained in chaos. She’d decided that nothing would change between them that following morning because it was simpler, but also because she had never truly believed that it would. Had been entirely terrified by the thought of their friendship being forged into something entirely brand new.She still couldn’t bring herself to fully admit what he meant to her. Perhaps she couldn’t yet even voice it to herself. But she could no longer allow him to continue to believe that he was little more than a flickering flame either.-------Or in a world where the Snotinghamscire arc is completed much earlier in the story, Eivor and Vili realise that they are so much more than best friends. As they fight and write their saga together, all that remains is for them to admit what they truly mean to each other.
Relationships: Eivor/Vili, Eivor/Vili Hemmingson, female Eivor/Villi
Series: Flickering Flames (Eivor/Vili) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059728
Comments: 21
Kudos: 181





	1. Þreyja (Desire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even up in Odin’s hovel, when he’d told her that he wanted her, Eivor had assumed that it was just that, a flickering flame. An exploration of that first kiss before he left Norway. A man who trusted her with everything reaching out for comfort whilst the rest of his world remained in chaos. She’d decided that nothing would change between them that following morning because it was simpler, but also because she had never truly believed that it would. Had been entirely terrified by the thought of their friendship being forged into something entirely brand new.
> 
> She still couldn’t bring herself to fully admit what he meant to her. Perhaps she couldn’t yet even voice it to herself. But she could no longer allow him to continue to believe that he was little more than a flickering flame either.
> 
> \-------
> 
> Or in a world where the Snotinghamscire arc is completed much earlier in the story, Eivor gets injured and Vili shows her all of the reasons that make him her best and closest friend. In the process, Eivor struggles with her decision to not be completely honest with him about how she feels. Heated, love longing fluff ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ubisoft, why? First Brasidas in Odyssey and now you give me Vili, with all of his chemistry and backstory and he's a one night stand?
> 
> I just can't let it lie and end that way between these two lovesick fools. So I'm here, trying to write a bit of fix as best I can. I just love these two and their chemistry - it really made me wonder how Vili would stand by Eivor's side through everything she faces throughout the game.
> 
> I'm not sure how many people are kindred spirits with me on this, so this will likely become a collection of scenes and stories exploring their relationship as Eivor's saga develops with guest appearances from Sigurd, Randvi and the whole fantastic Ravensthorpe crew.
> 
> Thanks for joining me on my fanfiction of denial :-)

> **Þreyja - desire/long for**

* * *

Red coated Eivor’s fingers as she reached under her armour, forcing a sharp hiss to push past her scarred lips. Pulling the drapes that separated her quarters from the rest of the longhouse was a stretch she instantly regretted. She cursed, first to herself and then to the Gods as she crossed the room and sank down tenderly onto the fur covered bench beside her bed. 

Woodsmoke hung in the air of the longhouse, while the torches by her bedside flickered and threw out dancing shadows across the great bear pelt her bed sat upon. Wincing, Eivor moved to lift her armour and tunic up and over her head and shoulders, dropping them clumsily to the floor beside her. She craned her neck as she looked down to her right side, to the long gash that now oozed blood. It slashed across the very edges of the Sigrdrífumál runes written across her stomach and angled upwards, towards the band across her chest. An errant spear had caught her in the last fight, but amongst her blood fury she’d not felt the pain of it until they’d begun the journey home. She’d done her best to ensure that the crew were none the wiser as they’d pulled back into the dock at Ravensthorpe, slinking off to the longhouse like a wolf looking to lick its wounds in peace. She loved every one of her warband like family, but that didn’t mean she needed to hear them fussing over another addition to her growing collection of scars. 

“You’ve looked better Eivor, I’ll admit…” 

_She hadn’t been as stealthy as she’d thought._

All at once, the drapes into her room were pulled to one side, revealing the large, stocky silhouette of Vili grinning at her. He was without his armour and axe, his heavy cloak still slung around his shoulders. He raised a scarred eyebrow at the state he found her in, leaning a forearm against the wood that framed the entrance to her room. 

“I’m fine.”

“You say that as though I didn’t just watch you limp your way up the hill.” Vili laughed, throwing his hands up into the air. “The mighty drengr bleeds! Who would have thought it?” 

“Shut up, Arse-Stick.” Eivor shook her head. “If you plan on staying, close the drapes. It’s cold.” 

“You feel the cold too? Your reputation grows smaller and smaller still, my friend.” 

“You are the expert of all things small...” Eivor quipped, although the humour in her voice was short lived as she pushed experimentally at her wound again. The bleeding she had begun to think had stopped had started anew. “ _Ahh_ … pass me those bandages and that bowl there.” She waved an irritated hand in the direction of the wooden table to Vili’s right. 

Vili did as she asked, shutting out the longhouse and the chill behind the heavy draped material that hung across the threshold as he stepped into the room. He shrugged off his heavy cape, the thick piece of fur tumbling to the floor with a soft thud. Grabbing the silver bowl and bandages as instructed, he carried them over to her side. He then dropped to kneel in front of her and batted her hands away from the wound, his blue eyes reflecting orange firelight as he inspected it silently. 

With anyone else, Eivor might have felt exposed by the intrusion. She was hardly shy, but in her experience to be caught feeling vulnerable was far worse than to be caught naked. In either case, Vili had seen her be both. Vulnerability was an emotion they’d shared many times over the years, most recently back in Snotinghamscire when they’d lost Hemming Jarl. They’d both been laid bare by their grief then. Somehow sharing her innermost fears and emotions with Vili came so easily, even after so much time apart. 

Drunken, half dressed revelry and dares aside, she’d only been completely naked in front of him once. It had been the night before Hemming’s pyre had been lit, where they’d talked of a life where the North Sea had never separated them. Warmed by mead and his company, she’d admitted more than she’d ever planned, but it had been Vili who had pressed her for more. They’d spent the night wrapped in furs and lost in each other, hands and lips raking across scars and tattoos alike. Come the morning, they had promised to never speak of it again, falling back into their old friendship as though nothing had changed. That notion had been of Eivor’s making, one that had made perfect sense when he was to be a Jarl and a Lord of the far flung North. 

It made absolutely no sense now that he was neither a Jarl nor in the North, but Eivor had not the stones to tell him otherwise. Even separated for ten winters, her friendship with Vili was one of the closest she possessed. Aside from Sigurd, he was the man who knew her the best. The thought of that changing, of her losing the trust that they’d shared scared her witless. So many people relied on her now, so many decisions hung on her word alone. There was an ever smaller circle of people she trusted enough to share her whole self with, those who could see past the stoic exterior of her nobility and know the true Eivor beneath. Vili was one, had always had that privilege since they’d been children. The thought of losing him all over again, like she had all those years ago was too much to bear. 

“I’m not a child…” She sighed reluctantly, watching as he soaked one of the bandages in the bowl of water. 

“Then stop acting like one?” He shook his head, wringing out the cloth before pressing it with an uncharacteristic tenderness to her wound. Eivor had a quick reply ready for him, but it died on her tongue as she tensed in discomfort, fighting the urge to let out another hiss. “It’ll make a fine scar.” 

“The more scars, the better the boast?” Eivor glanced down at him, eyebrow raised.

“Precisely. Someday you might even look the part of a real drengr…” He laughed to himself, dodging her hand as it swatted at his head in reply. “You need to close this wound though. So it heals.” 

“You’re a healer now?” She took the wet cloth from his hands and pressed it back against her side. “I can handle it.” 

“I didn’t say that you couldn’t. But from that angle… you’ll just make a mess.” Patting down the belt around his waist, he retrieved a small pouch and a larger water skin. Uncorking it with his teeth, he held the skin out to her. “There’s nothing that honeyed mead can’t solve…” 

“ _Vili_ …” 

“What, Eivor? Do you not trust me?” He was already retrieving a small metal needle from the leather pouch, alongside a spool of shining silk thread. Deft fingers pushed the needle into the lit torch beside her bed, before focusing on uncoiling the thread. 

“I trust you completely.” It wasn’t a lie. 

“Then drink your mead and let me help you.” He smirked. “If it looks no better than a pig’s ear when I’m finished, you can punish me however you wish.” 

Eivor decided against arguing further. Experience alone told her that Vili was right. She could attempt to stitch the wound herself, but it would be clumsy at best and run the risk of making the injury worse. Her stubbornness might have wanted to push him away, but it was merely her pride talking, her need to be self sufficient and strong. She didn’t doubt Vili’s skill; the man had enough scars littering his arms and torso that he likely possessed a steadier hand than many a seamstress. 

She was so used to being alone these days. With Sigurd lost to her, Eivor had grown too accustomed to holding everything together alone. She had simply grown out of the habit of asking for help, or of taking it whenever it was offered. It seemed that the larger her reputation grew, the fewer people asked. 

_Perhaps it was her pride and not her reputation that had pushed them away?_

Eivor shook her head, her mouth downturned into a resigned grimace. Without another word, she lifted the water skin to her lips and swallowed down several long gulps of mead. It was sweet and slightly spiced on her tongue, the heat of it quickly settling in the pit of her stomach and the back of her throat. Vili gave her a nod of encouragement and she huffed, taking another long pull of alcohol. 

She’d need it, no matter how skilled Vili turned out to be. 

Vili didn’t patronise her by telling her to expect pain; they both knew the grim reality of closing a wound all too well for that. Instead he set about his work in uncharacteristic silence, brow furrowed as he concentrated. Even with the mead, the pain set Eivor afire. Her whole body tensed at the progressive burn in her side, the bitter sting that came with each and every stitch as the tender skin was pulled taut. As Vili approached the deepest part of the wound, she clenched her bottom lip between her teeth, allowing herself the weakness of a soft grunt. Vili hummed in response, a sound designed to soothe her although his fingers never once stopped their work. With little else to do, Eivor squeezed the water skin filled with mead tighter, whilst her remaining hand fidgeted idly by her thigh. 

“You’ll live drengr.” Vili rocked back on his heels to survey his work. He grunted in contentment, reaching for the mead in her hand before draining it in one long gulp. He tossed the water skin down to the floor beside him and reached for the remaining bandages, beginning to wrap them around her waist. 

“You won’t be rid of me so easily Arse-Stick.” 

“Good, I’d hate to have to find another crew again so soon.” He grinned up at her, tying the bandage off in a neat knot. 

“And what makes you think another Jarl would have you?” 

“You wound me, Wolfkissed. “ He clutched at his chest in mock offense. “A jomsviking of my strength and looks? I’d be a boon for any band and you know it.” 

_That she did._ Admitting it however was another matter entirely. 

“Luckily for you, Tekla’s mead is good enough to make anyone stay. Even when their war chief is as hard headed as you.” 

“You’d spend your life soaked in mead if you could.” 

“Are you telling me that you wouldn’t? That is **_not_ ** the Eivor I know.” Vili smirked, tapping at the small scar on his right cheek. “Do you remember how I got this? If memory serves, it was thanks to one of your many mead inspired adventures.” 

“I remember things differently. Mostly I remember a boy who couldn’t hold his mead and then struggled to ride a horse. You were the one moving, Vili, not the branch.”

“We were both struggling to stand, as I remember it. But it was worth it for the look on your face after I fell from my horse… you looked as though Hel herself had risen up to claim me.” 

“Only while I imagined having to tell Hemming Jarl how stupidly his only son had died.” She rolled her eyes. “We had to wash your face in the river before I carried you home.” 

There had been more to that night that was left unsaid. Once Vili had fallen from his horse, face bleeding from the branch that had struck him, they’d staggered to the small stream nearby that cut through the ice and snow nearby. Lit by only moonlight, she’d washed the blood and dirt from his face. Kneeling down together by that stream, they’d laughed harder than they had reason to, protected from the chill by the barrel of mead they’d stolen from the great hall that warmed their bellies.

The memory was a hazy one, dulled by her drunkenness at the time and the years that had followed, but she vividly remembered Vili’s hand cradling the back of her head, pulling her face closer. She’d felt her heart stutter in her chest, filled with confusion and anticipation all at once when his lips had pressed against hers. Although they had never moved past that first kiss, Eivor could still remember the shift in her friendship with Vili, the moment when she’d seen him fully as something more than just her best friend.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered. A month later and he was gone, whisked away in a longship to journey to England with his father. Back then it had felt as though he was sailing away to the ends of the world, Eivor resigned to the fact that she might never see her best friend again, at least in this life. 

Laughing and joking with Vili now, she wondered if he remembered the rest of that night too. If he had mentioned the scar on purpose. She quickly pushed her curiosity aside. 

“You always did have a habit of taking care of me.” Vili laughed. He pulled himself up to his feet, stepping back until his calves collided with her bed before making a show of collapsing back down onto the straw mattress with a huff. “How the tables have turned, eh?” 

“I still take care of you. Or did you forget who hauled your drunken arse into the ship yesterday?” She gave him a pointed look. “How did Trygve describe you again? The mind of a troll trapped within the body of an Aesir? Your Jarl has a way with words.” 

“Ah, you enjoy it. At least I’m simple… easy to read. A breath of fresh air from all of those stuffy, Saxon thegns vying for your attentions.” He laid back on the furs, one arm bent beneath his head. When he spoke again, his gaze remained fixed on the thick wooden rafters above them. “Did you mean what you said?” 

“When?” 

“Back in Snotinghamscire. You said that you’d thought of me fondly, and often enough that it felt as though I never left.” He laughed, although the sound was hollow and missing a measure of his usual confidence.

“You remember that?” 

“Of course I remember that.” His eyes slipped from the rafters and back to hers as he sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. “So?” 

“So? Of course I meant it.” She shrugged in response, but the way Vili continued to stare made it clear that he expected more from her answer.”... At first I thought about whether or not you made it to England. But then I’d think about the way you’d always encourage me to drain a second horn of mead, or how you’d always have my back in a fight. Later when I heard tales from Snotingham, I’d imagine your new life and the settlement you’d helped your father create. I imagined you training to be Jarl, maybe marrying a Saxon woman to further your ties to the land.” 

“The man you imagined sounds so much more than the man I am.” Vili smiled, although he did little to hide the soft sadness in his features. “There were many women, a few of them Saxon. None of them wives.” 

“Why?” 

“Father never pressed and I had no interest in being tied down… It’s funny, I often wondered if you’d found yourself a husband. Or a wife.” 

“If Styrbjorn considered it, he never voiced it. And I never thought of much beyond my blood feud with Kjotve. I suppose I was like you… I just wanted to roam.” She smiled. “Now I have a clan to help my brother lead. You can’t roam forever.” 

“And there’s no one?” Vili cocked a curious eyebrow. 

“No one.” 

“ _Really?_ ” 

“Is that so hard to believe?” 

“A little, yes. For me… there was always someone. A fearless drengr. She had a weak stomach for ale, but an axe blow that could split skulls.Thoughts of her were… hard to shake, no matter who else shared my bed. ” He shook his head, laughing softly. “But thanks to the cruelty of the Gods, to her I’m just a momentary heat. A flickering flame.”

Eivor had faced armies that vastly outnumbered her own, fought in shield walls surrounded by blood, gore and screams. She’d sailed high, churning seas and felled wild beasts. And yet nothing made her heart pound as hard beneath her ribs as Vili’s words had. 

It was a stab of pain, a jolt that wrenched at both her heart and her stomach. It wasn’t born of embarrassment or awkwardness. It was deeper, more visceral. The inescapable feeling of hurting someone you cared for so deeply. Of hurting someone more dear to you than perhaps any other.

She’d never considered Vili might think of her as anything other than a best friend. Before he left for England, she’d never had the chance to ask him what he really felt, what she really meant to him. She doubted that back then, as young and naive as they were, they truly had the chance to know what they were to each other. 

But after so long, it had just been good to have him back in her life. Too good in a way, reigniting the emotions that had built in her heart over the years they’d been separated. They’d been dormant for so long, pushed aside because the search for glory and honour and Sigurd were always more important, more pressing. Even then, Eivor had pushed those embers and sparks aside, focusing instead on Hemming Jarl, his journey to Valhalla and her attempts at shaping Vili into the leader Hemming had always wanted him to be. She hadn’t been successful. In the end her visions of Odin and his desperation to avoid his fate had made her realise that she could never truly force Vili to become the one thing he did not want to be. At least not yet. 

Even up in Odin’s hovel, when he’d told her that he wanted her, Eivor had assumed that it was just that, a flickering flame. An exploration of that first kiss before he left Norway. A man who trusted her with everything reaching out for comfort whilst the rest of his world remained in chaos. She’d decided that nothing would change between them that following morning because it was simpler, but also because she had never truly believed that it would. Had been entirely terrified by the thought of their friendship being forged into something entirely brand new. 

And her blindness had hurt Vili. Had hurt them both. All at once, her silence was deafening. 

She still couldn’t bring herself to fully admit what he meant to her. Perhaps she couldn’t yet even voice it to herself. But she could no longer allow him to continue to believe that he was little more than a flickering flame either. 

“You’re wrong.” She spoke softly, deliberately as she hauled herself up so that she was standing over him. “I was always able to hold my ale.” 

“That wasn’t really what I was saying, Eivor…” 

“I know that.” Running her teeth across her bottom lip, Eivor hesitated for all but a moment, watching him carefully. His eyes were wide, puzzled as he watched and waited for her next move, still propped up on her bed. He’d shed his armour before coming to her room, and with his cloak still lying on the floor he was wearing only a loose, roughspun tunic. The laces were undone at the neck, a swirl of the tattoo underneath across his collar bones just visible. She smiled. Vili had changed so much in ten winters. He had become broader, more muscular, was covered in tattoos where before he had only had one or two. But the blue eyes that watched her, the smile in reply to her own… they were still so reminiscent of a man she’d shared so much of her life with. 

A man she’d share so much more with, if he’d let her.

“You’re more than a flame.” Slowly, mostly thanks to her injury, she moved in closer, deliberately placing a knee either side of his hips so that she straddled him. His soft smile twisted into a more knowing smirk and he rose up to be closer to her. Eivor bent her head and pushed her hands up under the bottom of his tunic, tracing the hard muscle of his stomach that they found there. She crumpled the fabric in both fists, wrenching it upwards and over his head before throwing the fabric to join his cloak on the floor. 

Her hands explored his freshly exposed skin. She rocked back on her heels, watching curiously as her fingers traced the long, sweeping curves of Jormungandr that swirling across his abdominals, before messing through the thick, black hair that littered his chest. She could feel his heart beneath his skin, hammering at a similar speed to her own. Her hand settled above it and she dragged it downwards, her blunt nails scraping against his skin. Vili’s mouth dropped open, his hips bucking beneath her in a way that left no doubts about how much he wanted her. 

It hurt to lean in closer to him, but Eivor didn’t care. She bent her head, pushing their bodies closer as she closed her mouth over his in a kiss. It was nowhere near as tentative as their first, nor as frantic as their last. Instead, it built slowly, a steady rhythm that grew in tempo as their bodies began to grind against each other. Vili's body was red hot against hers, a familiar hand messed through the braids that gathered at the back of her head whilst the other slipped down to trace the curve of her spine. Deft fingers traced the hem of her trousers and danced across her hip bone, before pushing lower still. 

She trusted Vili, with everything she was and everything she had. That much she had never doubted. There would be a time for them to understand exactly what they were to each other and possibly what they might become. But battle sore and weary, Eivor was simply content to lose herself in his touch. There would be a time for questions later, but later could wait. The world was cold and the Gods could be cruel; she’d learned that too many times over to count. 

They were more than just flickering flames. For that moment at least, that was enough. 


	2. Hjarta (Heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the weeks following Eivor's injury, Vili has become a regular fixture in Eivor's bed. Although the pair haven't spoken about the change in their friendship, tongues in Ravensthorpe has begun to wag. In the run up to the Yule festival, Eivor begins to feel the weight of leading in her brother's stead, whilst fighting to ignore the growing distance between them. 
> 
> In short: two idiots in love continue to dance around each other, but its winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... this was supposed to be posted while the Yule DLC was still active, but alas, real life got in the way. I received so many beautiful comments on the previous chapter that I just couldn't leave Eivor and Vili be and so I present you a multichaptered story where I previously only intended to write a one shot. Please forgive any mistakes, this piece isn't beta'd and it's currently 1.30am. 
> 
> I've been playing around with this chapter for longer than I care to admit, but sometimes you just have to post the thing so that you can move on to the good stuff. ;-) I hope you enjoy this journey of love sick idiots along with me. 
> 
> Thank you again for all the love on the last chapter. You literally don't know how much it means to me.

* * *

Her room was still dimly lit, the dark shroud of an early winter’s morning wrapping the majority of the longhouse still in shadow. The torches by her bedside were long since extinguished, the only light the soft orange glow of firelight that peeked through the drapes that separated her quarters from the continually lit hearth of the adjoining hall. The smell of woodsmoke drifted on the air.

Eivor had no interest in being awake, laid mostly on her belly with her face pressed into the warmth of the deep green pillows of her bed. At the corners of her mind was the dull ache of too much mead from the night before. She was naked and wrapped in furs, content to stay abed a while longer until _Sól_ saw fit to haul herself back up into the sky. 

All at once she felt a cold draft against her back, her skin rising into gooseflesh from the sudden onslaught. She let out a soft grunt of disapproval as she felt the furs at her back dip, slipping lower until they rested just above her hips. In their place was a warm hand and coarse finger tips that slowly traced the ravens that adorned her shoulder blades, a gentle touch that traced along the curves of their wings to the very tips. The fingers lingered for a moment and then slipped further still, slowly following the simple clean lines of the _Mjolnir_ tattooed across her spine. 

_Vili._

The still cold air assaulted her skin, shivers and tingles trailing after his touch. Grunting in sleep hazed irritation and with still closed eyes, Eivor fumbled for the heavy furs that now pooled around her waist, but instead a hand caught her wrist and held it by her side. She huffed, bicep tensed as she prepared to wrench herself from his grasp, until a warm mouth replaced his lingering touch against her back. His lips dallied there awhile, pressing kisses along the hammer etched into her skin before moving impossibly slowly down the curve of her spine. 

It was weeks after she’d been wounded and let Vili fall back into her bed. In the time that followed, he had become a regular fixture, spending almost every night that followed by her side. At first, they’d at least tried to create the illusion that he was sleeping in his own bed in the barracks, but that had grown quickly tiresome, replaced instead with Vili simply retiring to her quarters without a word most evenings. So far, no one had commented outwardly about their arrangement, but she didn’t doubt that tongues would be wagging with speculation elsewhere in Ravensthorpe. 

Despite sleeping beside Vili, so little had changed in their friendship that Eivor didn’t dare tarnish it with words. Vili remained her best friend, fighting and training with her during the day and feasting and drinking with her during the night. They hadn’t spoken more about what they were to each other since the night Vili stitched her wound, instead spending their days fighting and fucking as though it was the most natural thing in the world. _Maybe it was._

The wound in question was now healing well, reddened angry flesh replaced by pink, tender skin. The stitches were gone and in their place lay a clean scar, another line of her saga carved into her skin. That morning, Vili’s hands ghosted over the fresh scar with care as he slowly flipped her over onto her back. Opening her mouth to protest, Eivor was cut short as Vili moved his larger frame to cover hers, littering her stomach and hips with feverish kisses and rakes from his teeth. 

She’d always known that Vili was handsome, even back before she’d seen him as anything more. But with his hair tousled by deep sleep and neck covered in bruises of her own making, she doubted that there was another human in all _Midgard_ more beautiful. 

Not that she would ever tell him that. Vili’s head was far too big for his shoulders already. 

As if on cue, he looked up at her with the most arrogant smile, his eyes watching her face carefully. He watched her gasp as he nipped at the skin of her inside thigh, grinning with so much satisfaction that Eivor would have kicked him had he not so quickly buried his head between her legs.

Perhaps she could stand to stay awake just a little longer. 

* * *

When _Sól_ finally rose, Eivor did too. The great hall had been mostly empty, but the roaring log fire brought with it welcome heat. Bundled up in her thick raven clan cloak, Eivor hunkered down on one of the benches closest to the fire, content to fill her belly with meat and cheese before setting out into Ravensthorpe proper. 

She’d had a thought to go and visit Gunnar and spend the day tucked away in his forge, away from the biting chill in the air and far removed from all other responsibility. She was no blacksmith, but she knew enough to hammer out iron on an anvil as well as any other. It would be hard work, met with Gunnar’s constant scrutiny but there was an empty headedness Eivor craved from losing herself in something other than fighting. 

All thoughts of shrugged off responsibility were lost the moment Randvi settled herself down beside Eivor on the bench. Her friend’s face was drawn into a pale smile, although there was a flicker of warmth in her eyes as they lifted to meet Eivor’s. They sat for a few moments in silence, while Randvi helped herself to a heel of bread, picking at it on her clay plate with unenthusiastic fingertips.

“Is there something wrong?” It was rare enough to see Randvi away from her scrolls and parchments at this hour, but Eivor could practically feel the unease radiating from her friend. 

“No, should there be?” 

“You look as if you’re carrying the weight of Ravensthorpe on your shoulders.” Eivor huffed, not even believing her denial for a moment. “I’d thought that was my burden these days, not yours.”

“ _Our_ burden.” A sigh slipped from Randvi’s lips as the rest of her words appeared to fall away. She paused for a beat, looking back to her meal. Her shoulders sank all but a little. “It’s Sigurd.” 

“You surprise me. What has my brother done now?” 

“More what he _hasn’t_ done.” She let out a soft, sorrowful laugh. “A messenger arrived early this morning. From Oxenefordscire. It sounds as though he has found a potential ally.” 

“ _Good_ … We had feared that most in Oxenefordscire would turn from us.” 

“It sounds as though most still will. But this Saxon nobleman wants control of the shire and isn’t above siding with Norse and Danes to get it. He’s invited Sigurd to stay for their Christ God’s winter festival.” 

“And Sigurd’s agreed?” 

“He has. Apparently there’s much for him to do there. He didn’t say more than that.”

“I take it that Basim is with him too?” 

“Of course. When isn’t he?” She paused, finally looking up from her plate and meeting Eivor’s gaze again. “I’ve never assumed to know him as well as you do. But I find him harder to understand by the day. He’s our Jarl, but he’s happier spending his days chasing the fates than amongst his own people.” 

Eivor couldn’t disagree. She’d been fighting to ignore her brother’s reluctance to lead their clan from their new home in Ravensthorpe for weeks, but it never did her much good.

“For what it’s worth... I’ve never felt further from him either.” It was the truth, one that Eivor didn’t like to admit. She offered Randvi a weak smile of solidarity. It was hard to pinpoint, the moment when she’d begun to realise that she and Sigurd were drifting further from each other rather than closer. It was a strange feeling, so subtle when Sigurd’s own words always spoke of how much he loved and trusted her more than any other. 

His actions spoke differently, of hushed conversations that she barely understood the meaning of with Basim. Where his words offered comfort, his actions cut deeper, reminding her of how far she had seemingly fallen from her brother’s confidence. 

“You are right though…” Eivor mused. “Sigurd has his own path right now. I think he needs it after everything he walked away from back home. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt all the same.”

“He loves you more than anyone else in _Midgard_.” Randvi spoke plainly. “Surely you know that?” 

“And I love him. I’d follow him into the depths of _Ginnungagap_ if he asked. He’ll always have that loyalty from me.” She gave her a wry smile. “But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop calling him an arse when he acts like one either.” 

“You are so much better at that than me.” 

“You were blessed with the silver tongue of diplomacy.” Eivor grinned. “A skill you need to start teaching me.” 

“Did the mighty Eivor Wolfkissed just ask me for schooling?!” Randvi pretended to blush, fanning her face in an over dramatic gesture that barely stifled a giggle. “Someone fetch a skald to sing about this before it’s forgotten.” 

“You’re unbearable. I almost preferred it when you were silent.” 

“ _Hey!_ ” Randvi slapped at her bicep in mock offense. She tried and failed to hide the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “So what will you do? With Sigurd gone?” 

“Stay here for the festival. Sigurd might be content to spend Yule with the Christians, but for me nothing’s changed. We’ve worked hard to survive here… it’s time we had the chance to enjoy everything we’ve built together.”

“With Tekla’s new brew, I don’t think celebrating will be too difficult.” 

“You see? Even if I did want to leave, my crew would be too mead soaked to sail with me.” Eivor grinned. “If the winter snows allow, I’ll set out to Oxenefordscire to meet him before the next new moon.” 

“Will you take Vili with you?”

“If he wishes. He’s a member of my crew after all.” Eivor shot her friend a questioning look. “Why do you ask?” 

“You two seem... quite inseparable these days.” Randvi mused. She gave Eivor a pointed, if not unpleasant look. “People are starting to talk.” 

“Then let them.” Eivor shrugged. She idly tossed another hunk of cheese into her mouth. “We don’t have anything to hide.” 

“I suppose the Gods have made _worse_ matches.” 

“Who said that we were a match?” 

“Then what are you?” It was an excellent question, one that Eivor didn’t entirely know the answer to herself.

“ _Friends_.” Eivor rolled her eyes. It wasn’t the answer Randvi was looking for, but it was the one thing she was truly certain of. Deep down she knew that her feelings for Vili ran far deeper than friendship, but she couldn’t voice them to Randvi before she’d admitted them to Vili himself. “We always have been, for almost as long as I can remember.” 

“He’s a good man. That same loyalty that you have for Sigurd, he has for you.”

“Randvi... Are you trying to marry me off?” 

“Not at all!” Randvi looked at her incredulously. “But I _do_ enjoy seeing you happy. You’re just... _lighter_ when he’s around.” She shook her head, standing up from the bench almost as quickly as she’d collapsed down onto it. In a single fluid movement, she outstretched a hand and gave Eivor’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I don’t mean to press, Eivor, believe me. Only to say… you deserve this. Whatever _this_ is, it’s rarer than you might think.” 

* * *

Raventhorpe was already beginning to buzz with Yule preparations when Eivor finally left the great hall. The day was clear and crisp, the air biting cold under a cloudless sky. _Sól_ hung low in the sky even at her peak, her golden rays glinting off the crystalline snowflakes that coated every dwelling in Ravensthorpe. By the docks the river swelled, still bolstered by the heavy autumn rain from _Thor’s_ many raging storms. 

Eivor settled into a day of helping the townsfolk prepare for Yule. A clearing to the east of the settlement boundary had been cleared ready for the festival and already a large pyre was being built at its centre ready for dusk. Eivor helped carry the great logs from the forest and to the pyre, strapped to her back with thick cords of rope. Later, she helped the children climb the great oak tree outside the longhouse, adorning it with brightly coloured ribbons and offerings of wheat, dried fruit and other tokens for the Gods. As the sun began to set and dusk started its slow creep across the land, Eivor helped carry platters of salted and freshly cooked meat out towards the benches around the fire. Surrounded by food and barrels of ale, Ravensthorpe began to light up around her as torches and lanterns were lit along every street, static fireflies that threw out an ever present orange glow across snow and mud paths alike. 

In the absence of their Jarl, Valka had asked Eivor to help her lead the Yule ritual that evening. It was a position of the highest honour, to help light the great pyre that they’d keep alight for days and usher in the beginning of Yule proper. A mantle she’d seen both her father and adopted father take up every winter for as long as she could remember. 

She’d refused. Even when Valka had protested, Eivor had maintained that it should be Randvi standing at the pyre in Sigurd’s stead. After all, as his wife it was her right. 

There was more to Eivor’s reluctance than she was prepared to say and so she stayed silent. She didn’t speak of her fear of appearing to try and replace her brother in his Jarldom. Nor did she speak of the fact that regardless of how much she loved Ravensthorpe and it’s people, she’d never looked to become its leader. Had never wanted to. She would always gladly help Sigurd lead as his right hand, but she would never seek to displace him, no matter what Dag whispered behind her back. 

Eivor had watched the ceremony from the crowd, tankard in hand and amongst her kin. Lost within all of the hollering and celebration, she’d felt her heart twang with something akin to loneliness. _She missed Sigurd._ Not as her Jarl, but as her brother. She missed the closeness they’d shared, the camaraderie. His absence only amplified the growing distance that had begun to stretch between them. It was a night filled with singing, drinking and feasting, but without him every song had a faintly hollow ring. Eivor couldn’t help but feel that even if he had been present, she would have still not quite felt whole. 

They were drifting apart, riding separate currents along the waves. Eivor no longer knew how to bring them back to travelling on the same course. That thought alone was the hardest to shake. 

* * *

The feasting continued long into the night, echoes of laughter and boasting ringing out across every inch of the settlement. The soft strings of lyres peppered the air with pleasant melodies, interjected with the whoops and cheers of a steadily more drunken crowd. Eivor did her duty, flitting from family to family and sharing drink and kind words. She stood to watch the tournaments, as men and women alike soaked their heads in mead and exchanged blows in Sunniva’s fighting ring. 

But she was restless. The festival was so loud that she could barely hear herself think. When she was able, her feet carried her to the outskirts of town, to the relative calm of the burial mounds and statues of the Gods. Far from the many torches and braziers, the mounds themselves were only lit by dappled silver light from _Máni_ high above, streaking past barren tree branches and casting the snow flecked moss floor beneath her feet into greyish green. 

Dutifully, Eivor visited Svend, pouring a splash of mead from her own waterskin onto the fresh earth of his grave. Svend had been a man who could outdrink almost anyone at a feast, including Eivor herself. He’d been a constant in her life in Fornburg, had been the hand behind almost all of the tattoos that littered her body. With every tattoo, he’d told her the story behind the saga he was etching into her skin; tales of the _Aesir_ , the _Vanir_ , of _Jotun_ and dwarves. He was no skald and could not carry a tune in any manner of bucket, but the way he told stories around the fire in the great hall had always been second to no one. 

Seating herself down on a log, Eivor finally found the opportunity to breathe. The air was like ice in her lungs and she pulled her thick cloak closer, the fur tucked beneath her chin. A churning mist left her lips with every breath, dissipating out into the air as quickly as it appeared. 

How quickly such a strange world had become home. She’d never expected to ever care for England. Just like every other Norse, she’d heard the stories and tales of an evergreen land of plenty and of strange, unprotected temples filled with silver. But the tales of men were often far flung from the truth, and in reality Eivor had believed England to be a means to an end, rather than a land where she could truly belong. She was a _drengr_ , and a warrior with their sights on Valhalla never needed to grow roots anywhere.

And yet Ravensthorpe already felt more like home than Fornburg ever had. For so long, her life had been solely focused on blood feuds and violence, on tearing down what others had created rather than building for herself. She had never stopped to think about belonging anywhere, about finding a place to settle and finally be still. If Sigurd’s unwillingness to remain in Ravensthorpe had offered her anything, it was the calm sense of pride in seeing their people grow. In watching forests become fields and sparse tents become homes filled with roaring hearths. 

Ravensthorpe was the promise of a different life. A life on _Midgard_ where she could simply be instead of constantly reaching for whatever came next. In quiet moments like these, it was too easy to imagine a life outside of raiding and making kings. 

“You know, I hear the dead make terrible company.” She didn’t need to look up to recognise the voice, the corners of her lips quirking into a smile in response to the joke. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Eivor raised her gaze, her eyes falling upon the familiar, lumbering form of Vili, a lit torch blazing in his hand. A roguish grin was plastered across his face, his thick black and red cloak slung around his shoulders.

“And yet their jokes are still better than yours _arse-stick_.” Eivor shook her head. “They boast less too.” 

“A pity, I bet they have some stories to share.” Vili chuckled, not standing on ceremony as he moved to join her on the log. He sat down heavily, stabbing the base of his torch into the soft earth beside him. Without a word, he reached for the waterskin of mead she still held between her knees. Uncorking it with a pop, he threw his head back and downed a measure of alcohol. In the soft torch light, Eivor could see smears of darkening red that stained the front of his red woollen tunic. There was a dark shadow blooming below his left eye, accompanied by a trickle of blood that was beginning to dry and crust around the bottom of his nostrils. 

“You’ve looked better.” Waiting until he’d finished drinking, Eivor reached out, catching his chin between her thumb and forefinger. She angled his face towards hers so that she could take a better look. “What happened?” 

“Sunniva’s tournament.” Vili laughed, wresting his face from her grip. “I was waiting for the mighty Wolfkissed to come and challenge me, but she’d already gone to hide in the woods.” 

“You’d look far worse if she hadn’t.” 

“Really? Maybe someday we should test that. Fortunately for you, Dag rose up to the challenge instead. He seemed almost a little _too_ keen to face me.” Vili shrugged, taking another sip of mead. He stretched out a kink in his neck, tilting his head to one side. Eivor’s eyes struggled to ignore the way the defined cords of muscle beneath his skin flexed. “He told me he had a remedy for my pretty face.” 

“Who won?” 

“You have to ask?! I knocked him out cold in the centre of the challenge ring. He fell like a sack, it was a sight to see.” He grinned at her victoriously. “But he fought with honour, landed some hard hits that had me seeing stars. When I left, Sunniva was busy pouring a bucket of ale over his head to rouse him. He woke up spluttering in the mud!” 

“Now that is a sight I wish I’d seen…” Eivor laughed. She nodded towards Vili’s bruised features. “And I’d be flattered too… Dag thinks you’re _pretty_.” 

“ _Oh hush_ , you.” Vili jabbed a hard elbow playfully into her ribs in retaliation. “Besides, who says that I’m not?” 

“I’m sure there must be someone in Ravensthorpe who thinks that you are.” 

“Anyone I know?” 

“ _No_.” Eivor shook her head, snatching her water skin from him. A teasing smile played at the corners of her mouth until she threw her head back to take a long pull of mead. “He does respect you though, probably more so now you’ve bested him. Be safe in the knowledge that he thinks far more highly of you than he does of me.” 

“I’m not so sure that Dag thinks all that much. The man’s a hammer, he can split skulls well enough, but he’s hardly got the mind for strategy.” 

“And yet he believes he would lead Ravensthorpe better than me.” Eivor’s weight shifted forwards, her hands and waterskin hanging loosely in between her knees as she glanced over her shoulder to Vili. “The longer my brother is gone, the bolder Dag grows.” 

“But he’s not the man your Jarl chose. He can moan and complain all he wants, but every man, woman and child here knows that he was never Sigurd’s first choice.” 

“Do they?” The question that had been dogging her escaped her lips before she had the chance to catch herself. For a split second it hung in the air. “It’s… difficult. Leading in someone else’s stead. As though every misstep is judged so much harder because you’re less… _deserving_ to make those decisions than your true Jarl.” 

“Eivor…” Vili’s natural good humour had left his voice. Instead, his tone was serious, more measured. “You cannot truly believe that?” 

“Can’t I?” She shrugged, looking down to the moss covered earth beneath her boots. “I’ve never wanted to lead. It was my father’s ambition, but that died with him. Sigurd was always bred to bear the weight of it. But me? _I_ …” She hissed in frustration, for once lacking the words to articulate herself. Instead her head hung from her shoulders, words she’d dared not say to anyone flowing from her lips like blood from a wound. “I care about everyone in this settlement like they’re my family. But I feel lacking… painfully aware with every mistake that I’m not the one who is supposed to be leading them.” 

“And yet you’re the one who is.” Vili reached out with one hand, his knuckles bloodied from the previous fight. They curled around her forearm, his touch uncharacteristically tender as she lifted her gaze to look at him. “Every human in _Midgard_ makes mistakes. I watched my father make one after the other and still our clan loved him, _followed_ him in spite of those very mistakes.” 

“He was their Jarl.” 

“He was a good man and an even better leader.” Vili laughed softly, shaking his head. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, filled with a genuine affection that she hadn’t honestly heard since Hemming’s funeral pyre. “... You and I are alike, Eivor. We always were. But there are some things that separate us. The qualities I couldn’t see in myself to be Jarl… I see those in you.” 

“... You do?” Eivor’s voice wavered, caught off guard. Her brow furrowed, a physical representation of her struggle to believe him. “You always were a fool.” 

“I won’t disagree with you there. But even fools can be right once in their lives.” Vili smiled. His hand remained on her forearm, his thumb tracing absent, circular patterns into her tattooed skin. “Besides… in the end, it doesn’t matter what I think, what you think or even what the Gods think. Our lives are fated, remember? Woven for us before we even draw breath. Only _Odin_ himself ever saw fit to try and fight his fate.” 

“ _Careful_ Vili, you almost sound wise. Like your father.” 

“High praise indeed. I’d be proud to be half the man that he was.” He chuckled, although the sound was filled with sadness. “ _Gods_... I miss him. Even now.” 

“I miss him too.” Eivor could read her best friend better than any other. And so it hurt, seeing the reflection of the disappointment he felt towards himself shine through his eyes. They shared that too, the feeling of never being enough regardless of how hard they might try to be. Vili was a man filled with joyful arrogance and hedonism, but he was also a man who seemed incapable to see himself as others did. _As Eivor did_. For a woman who so rarely struggled with words, when it came to Vili, her tongue so often became tied. There was so much left unsaid, emotions that she dared not give voice. She wanted to tell Vili of how important he was, how special and utterly irreplaceable he was to her. But she feared what might come next, just as much as she feared what she stood to lose if his feelings didn’t mirror her own. 

The words of the High One aside, sometimes it was easier to be a coward. 

Whilst her tongue sat idle in her mouth, Eivor reached out the only way she knew how. Her right hand moved to rest atop his hand on her other arm, her touch gentle. For the briefest of moments, they stayed like that, until wordlessly Vili slowly lifted his fingers and laced them through hers. 

His touch was warm like the embers of a log fire, comforting a vulnerable part of her that she’d never admit to aloud. 

“Your father was always so proud of you.” It was a poor substitute for what she wanted to say, but it was the truth nonetheless. 

“He always said so.” Vili’s thumb stroked across the back of hers. “He was always able to find the right words.” 

“So what do you think he would say to us now?”

“In truth? That there isn’t enough mead in our bellies for the first night of Yule.” Vili laughed, the sound so soft and genuine that she was unable to stop herself from joining him. “You remember how much my father could drink?” 

“How could I not? He drank Styrbjorn under the table too many times to count.” 

“One of the few gifts that he _did_ pass down to me.”

“Perhaps. Although it’s also quite possible that it’s simply because you’ve had so much _practice_.” Eivor smirked, chuckling to herself with her head bowed. “I remember the night before you left for England. I was skulking around, pouting in the great hall. He pushed a tankard into my hand, slapped me on the back and told me to never worry for tomorrow when I could live for today.” 

“As I remember it, he gave me the same speech that night. Perhaps he only ever had the one after all.” 

“Then perhaps it’s high time that we listened. We should head back to the festival before we’re missed. We could even test whether or not you can truly drink as much as your great father in Braun’s drinking contest. ” 

“Is that a challenge Wolfkissed?” Vili raised an eyebrow, eyes fixed on Eivor as she slowly moved to stand. Her hand still holding his pulled him up to rise with her. “I’d _hate_ to embarrass you in front of your beloved Raven clan.” 

“Boast all you like _arse-stick_ , it doesn’t mean you’ll win.”

Nothing had changed, and yet somehow, Eivor still felt more at ease leaving the forest than when she had first arrived. As she clumsily dragged Vili after her and back towards the festival, she was no longer dogged by her fears, by the weight of her brother and his Jarldom that had sat so heavy on her shoulders before. Everything was as it had always been, with the exception that in Vili, she had a trusted ear to listen when it felt as if no one else could. 

Perhaps Randvi was right. Perhaps she simply was _lighter_ whenever he was near. Perhaps Vili was the one person in Ravensthorpe with whom she could truly be herself. 

But those questions were for another day. For a future when she would need to consider exactly what the tall, arrogant, brute of a _Jomsviking_ truly was to her. 

_‘Never worry for tomorrow when you can live for today.’_

In the end, neither Eivor or Vili won Braun’s contest. Instead, they drank their fill and then a little more, laughing and ever increasingly leaning on each other for support until the mead sloshed from their respective drinking horns. They’d watched as Randvi drank far more than she should have been able, doubled over breathless when Valka joined the festivities and promptly excused herself after a single horn’s worth and cheered when it was Gunnar of all people who won victory over all. 

The world had become an orange, swirling haze of song and firelight when they’d finally retired to their beds. Arm in arm, they’d staggered to the longhouse and into Eivor’s quarters. Mouse had met them at the threshold and Vili had ruffled a hand clumsily through her thick white fur whilst Eivor fumbled with the heavy drapes. 

They stripped off their boots and breeches before falling into bed together and covering themselves with the thick furs. Lying on her side, Eivor had already felt her eyes closing heavily with sleep as Vili curled into the back of her body, a thick arm coiling around her waist and holding her ever closer. 

In the cold light of morning, she would face all of her fears again head on. But for that first night of Yule, she was warm, her belly was full of good food and mead and she was exactly where she was supposed to be. For everything else, there was always tomorrow. 


End file.
